


Dramatics

by cyphernaut



Series: Sick Day Universe [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ageplay, Discipline, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:30:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyphernaut/pseuds/cyphernaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is too curious for his own good.  </p><p>In the same universe as <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/748790">Sick Day</a>, but set much later.</p><p>Again, no sex, and please let me know if you catch any errors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dramatics

Sherlock's primary problem with staring down the barrel of John's gun was that it was impossible to get his eye close enough to look inside without blocking the light that allowed him to see. His secondary problem was that John would likely wander in from his visit to Tesco's and take it from Sherlock's hands before he saw anything interesting at all. The fact that Sherlock had needed to retrieve it from a locked drawer that John had expressly forbidden him to touch didn't register on his list of problems at all.

The weapon fascinated him. He knew the mechanics of how it worked, how it could eject a small chunk of metal with forty-four Newtons of pressure and end someone's life, someone who was trying to end Sherlock's. He didn't quite know how it worked on John, though, how it was a part of him that he kept locked in a drawer which Sherlock was not allowed into.

Sounds of John's entry flit around the edge of Sherlock's consciousness, the sound of his key in the lock downstairs, the door opening and closing along with the soft rustle of bags, and his boots on the staircase. Sherlock continued to examine the rifling inside the barrel, the fingerprint of the gun. He didn't flinch when he heard John's alarmed gasp upon seeing him. He already knew he'd be in trouble, and he hadn't yet fallen into a young enough headspace to care.

“Did you get the Hobnobs?” he asked, placing the gun carefully back on the table.

As shock, confusion, and finally realization flashed across John's face, the bags fell from his lifeless fingers. The sound of a jar cracking jolted John from his trance, and he strode across the room to snatch the gun from the table.

“Go to your room,” he ordered.

“What?” Sherlock had expected to be scolded or maybe even punished, but John wasn't even looking at him, just inspecting the gun with a grim expression that set Sherlock's mind spinning, spiralling younger and more desperate when he didn't get the reaction he had anticipated.

The stony expression on his face when John finally looked back to Sherlock was not an improvement. Sherlock's blood ran cold under the fulminating gaze. “Go. To. Your. Room.” 

When Sherlock remained in place, rooted by fear, John hardened his tone further. “Now, Sherlock. Go.”

Sherlock ran.

* * *

Sherlock sat on his bed with his knees pulled to his chest, listening to John's footsteps through the flat. He'd already been up to his room to put the gun away, and now he was pacing in the lounge, on a slow circuit from the coffee table to his computer and back. He wasn't searching the Internet for advice on how to deal with Sherlock's latest misbehaviour, so he knew what he planned to do. He kept returning to the computer though, so he wasn't confident in the plan. He was also stalling, trying to calm himself down. 

A more insidious voice whispered that maybe he didn't even want to look at Sherlock. John had never before sent him to his room after all. Maybe he was so angry he never wanted to see Sherlock again, and he had to work himself up to going into his room. Sherlock knew it was ridiculous. He hugged his knees tighter and reminded himself of the fact.

John's footsteps finally made their way to Sherlock's door. John's face was as grim as before, and Sherlock tried to think of anything to say to mend the rift between them.

“John, I-”

“I don't care, Sherlock,” John cut in, hovering over him like an impenetrable tower of reproof. “I don't care why you did it. There is no reason for you to touch my gun. It is not a toy. It is not an experiment. It is not a tool for you to use to demonstrate that you have access to everything or can manipulate me into doing what you want. It is a weapon. Its only purpose is to kill people, and you are not to touch it. Is that clear?”

Sherlock nodded. He was too scared to speak, and he didn't think that he would be able to form words around the lump in his throat.

“Good.” John sat down on the edge of the bed and motioned Sherlock over with a very unwelcoming point of his finger. “Come here.”

“Why?” Sherlock whispered, shifting softly over the duvet.

“Because I'm going to smack you.”

Sherlock froze, and John simply grabbed his wrist and pulled. Sherlock clambered to follow his arm across John's body and ended up right where John wanted him, sprawled across John's lap with his face buried in the duvet.

The lecture continued as John pulled away Sherlock's dressing gown, something about knowing that it was dangerous and against the rules. Sherlock was too wrapped up in his own distress to process it. He gasped when he felt three stinging swats on the back of his right leg. It didn't quite hurt yet, not through his pyjama bottoms, and he held his breath waiting for the next onslaught.

It never came. Instead, John helped him back up to a sitting position, keeping a firm grip on his arm even after he was securely upright.

“Now, I want you to promise to me that you will not touch the gun again.”

All Sherlock wanted was for John to go back to being nice again, and he nodded, willing to agree to anything to make that the case.

“Say it aloud, Sherlock.”

“I promise,” he said, willing it to be good enough, willing his tears not to fall.

“You promise what?”

Panic threatened to overwhelm him. He wondered whether their relationship had been irrevocably changed. “I promise, sir,” he amended miserably.

So quickly that it might have been his imagination, Sherlock saw a glimpse of the affectionate exasperation that he was accustomed to flash across John's face. The authoritative mask quickly replaced it, though, and Sherlock was left even more confused and disoriented.

“No, Sherlock, what are you promising?”

“I promise I won't touch your gun again.”

“And why not?”

He was grasping at straws, but he had to say something. “Because you don't want me to.”

It was obviously the wrong answer. John took him in both hands and held tight. “Because you could _die_ , Sherlock! Because we would never see each other again!”

Sherlock's panic reached a fever pitch, and he screwed his eyes up against it. “No!”

Everything fell apart around him. He was crying and he couldn't stop, and finally his daddy's arms were around him, pulling him close, and he could let himself fall apart inside the embrace.

“I'm sorry, Daddy,” he sobbed.

“I know. I know.” His daddy rubbed his back and kissed his face and pet his hair and wiped his tears and did everything exactly right until Sherlock was sure he wasn't in trouble any longer.

* * *

John washed the jam off the milk carton and placed it in the refrigerator. He'd need to buy more jam, but they could hold out for a couple of days if they needed to. If he were honest with himself, the jam calculations were just an excuse to distract from the fact that Sherlock had been holed up in his room for the better part of an hour since he'd told John he was ready to age back up. He'd been quiet, too, no screeching of the violin to indicate a foul mood, or even the steady bump of things being tossed against a wall.

Just as John was considering knocking on the door, Sherlock emerged, fully dressed and with the hint of a smug grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“'No, Sherlock! I'd _never_ hit a child!'” Sherlock mocked him, taking the tea that John had left for him on the table. He grimaced when the cold liquid touched his lips.

John put the kettle back on. “I didn't exactly 'hit' you, did I now?”

“Oh, was there a mosquito on the back of my trousers? Did you just save me from West Nile?”

“You scared the hell out of me!” John told him. “I came in to find you pointing a gun at your face.”

“An unloaded gun.”

John didn't reply, knowing that Sherlock would be all too eager to list the ways he could have deduced the gun was unloaded from across the room. Honestly, a clip around the ear wouldn't go amiss on the adult Sherlock. He restrained himself, however, only moving to pour out another two cups of tea when the water was ready.

“I never said I wouldn't smack you.”

Sherlock took the tea with a mischievous smirk. “You said we'd discuss it first. Oh, yes, I believe I recall our discussion: 'I'm going to smack you.'” Sherlock feigned a thoughtful consideration of the memory. “Of course, normally discussions involve input from multiple parties. This was more of a monologue, or a soliloquy. A proclamation, really.”

John lifted his eyes to the ceiling. Of course Sherlock would revel in John's failure to negotiate the terms of the scene, a man who had once declared that there was no need for predefined limits as long as he had a safeword. “Are you all right, then?”

“Yes, of course I'm fine. There's no need for dramatics, John.”

“Right, I wouldn't want to turn someone pointing a gun at his head into something dramatic.”

“Unloaded,” Sherlock reminded him, cheered by John's unamused expression. “I'll have more tea, if you don't mind.”

John took the empty cup from Sherlock and turned toward the kettle. Sherlock's self-satisfaction was grating, and a bit excessive for catching John out the way he had done. Suddenly, John realized exactly why Sherlock was so smug.

“You engineered this!” John spun around to see Sherlock's delight at a mystery being solved, even if he was not the one to solve it. “You did this as an adult, manipulated the situation to have me smack you when you were little.”

“I wanted you to know that you could.”

John gaped. “I knew I could! I just-” He sputtered, completely at a loss for words. “What the hell, Sherlock? You pointed a gun at your face just to find out whether I would smack you?”

“Unloaded.”

John didn't know what he was about to do next, which was probably the only reason Sherlock didn't anticipate it either, and didn't shy away when John reached for the waistband of his trousers. He yanked Sherlock toward him and delivered several searing blows on his arse and thighs as he grit out, “I am very willing to smack you when I think it will do you good!”

He let go, and they both stepped back, John rubbing at the palm of his hand and Sherlock at the back of his trousers.

“That... hurt,” Sherlock said, as if unsure what to do with this new data.

“Good.” John felt a satisfaction from the smacking that he hadn't felt when Sherlock had been little. He wasn't sure how one should feel after giving a flatmate a smacked bottom, but satisfied seemed a little off. He tried to let it go, though, considering the extenuating circumstance of Sherlock's annoying personality.

“Much more than when you did it before,” Sherlock continued his musings.

“Yes, well, you're not a child.”

They stood there, staring at the lino, the table, the wall, anything but each other. The silence stretched on, as if neither of them quite knew what to do with the time and space that the universe had granted them.

“John?” Sherlock finally spoke, eyes trained on the wall.

“Yes?”

“You forgot my tea.”

"Right." John grabbed the tea kettle and returned to what passed for normal at 221B Baker Street.


End file.
